Cry, remember that first cry—your brother standing by
by wild wolf free17
Summary: [AU after 9.23 because I was disappointed with canon's demon!Dean] Wherein everything until the end of season 9 was Dean & Sam's origin stories as the true big bads.


Title: Cry, remember that first cry—your brother standing by

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from 'Lullaby for Cain'

Warnings: AU after 9.23; violence; character death; references to torture; Hell

Pairings: eventual wincest

Rating: PGish?

Wordcount: WIP

Point of view: third

Note: I haven't seen season 12 or 13, so I'm going off the Supernatural wiki for the stuff about Princes of Hell. I'm probably AUing certain canon weapons. I am totally bullshitting about Knight of Hell + bearer of the Mark abilities.

Another note: So, Hell is non-physical place of spirit/soul consciousness (exactly like Heaven and Purgatory) and we (as humans & readers) can only process it as a physical place. Because that's how our minds work and to see it as it actually is would, you know, destroy our brains. So there's that.

Of course, that makes writing about Hell a little tricky. Watch me as I *handwave* it.

* * *

Dean feels the heat spreading through him as his heart slowly _slowly_ begins beating again. It burns in his veins, building in his muscles, and the Mark sears on his arm. Sulfur. Brimstone. Crowley prattling on. His fingers on the Blade, heat from his skin against the ancient bone.

Not his first death, he thinks. Not his worst death. But he's in his own bed and Crowley is still talking, and _where is Sam._

His blood boils. Dean knows what he is, what he's become. Hell is in Crowley, the King calling his Knight home.

But where is Sammy? Why is Crowley in his room?

His Hell had been dark and hot, full of blood and screaming and bone, of blades and brands, of begging until the voice is gone and only sobbing gasps remain. He follows the sensation of heat throughout his body. Slowly, his heart beats.

He tightens his fingers on the Blade. Crowley, King of the Crossroads who promoted himself to the King of Hell—does he want an attack dog? A right hand man? A bodyguard? He didn't cause this, exactly, but he carefully guided Dean down this path.

Crowley, who's been as much an enemy as a friend. Crowley, _King of Hell_ , which means—

Fire roars through him and he moves, Blade singing as it bites into Crowley's meatsuit.

Crowley gapes at him, looking utterly shocked, and Dean smiles, says, "Hey, Crowley. Man, and I thought I talked too much."

It's more satisfying than the Kurdish knife, than the Colt. Nothing will ever equal Azazel's death, the end of a 22-year quest. Of course, ganking Zachariah and Ruby were pretty damn satisfying, too.

He pulls the Blade out of Crowley's gut, lets the meatsuit fall. "Should've stayed at the crossroads," Dean tells the corpse. "You're not my king."

Holding the Blade up to his eyes, Dean ponders. He doesn't have a sheath worthy of such a weapon, but Cas makes his own blade disappear and reappear at will. Cain probably could've done something like that, too, but Dean hasn't seen other demons do it.

Is Dean a _true_ demon, though? He's the True Vessel of an archangel—does Cain have whatever boost that might give him? Is Cain still in his original body? Dean is. That's gotta make a difference of some kind.

Dean _wills_ the Blade away, then summons it back. He grins, makes it go away again. Stretches, _feels_ how strong he is now. Blinks, just to see if he can make his eyes go demony, and he can. Grins, steps over Crowley's meatsuit.

Downstairs, a door slams.

 _Sammy_.

Dean isn't ready to see him or hear him or touch him or smell him—he died in Sam's arms again, felt everything slip away, relieved because it'd all be over.

Demons can teleport. Dean doesn't know how but he needs more time before interacting with his little brother, so he pictures the grocery store he's gone to in town, pictures himself in the parking lot—

And he's there, rain drizzling down on him. He's still dressed in the clothes he died in, dried blood and gore all that's left to show what happened. (Out of curiosity, he tries to clear it all away like Cas has done. Doesn't work.)

Beyond the heat simmering in his blood, he doesn't feel that different than he did as a human. Except the rage that colored everything—he doesn't want to tear apart everyone in sight, to carve into them and rip them to pieces. He would, gladly, but without a reason… he's settled in his skin, now. The Mark isn't hounding him, the Blade isn't hollowing him out until he's nothing but bloodthirsty rage.

To be perfectly honest, he feels like himself. More like himself than he can remember since he was a kid. Is this how Sam felt without his soul? Or doped on demon blood?

A man catches sight of him, eyes widening, and scrambles for his phone. Oops. Dean smirks at the guy, who is nervously backing into the parking lot, and stalks forward.

.

The Mark purrs on his arm, satisfied; the Blade hums contentedly. Both have been fed. He definitely doesn't want to go back to Hell but he just killed its King. He killed its Queen. So there's a throne waiting and a worthy candidate. Dean doesn't _want_ to go back to Hell but the place needs to be cleaned up for the new king, and it's the one place Sam won't be able to reach as he tears the world apart once he realizes Dean's body is gone with Crowley's in its place.

He hasn't had a body in Hell before. Can he leave it behind? He doesn't want to try smoking out because what if he can't get back in?

Well. There's a guy he knows who could tell him. So he glances around the parking lot, at the poor bastards who had the misfortune of seeing his face, and zaps out.

.

"I told you there'd be a cost," Cain says. His eyes linger on Dean's forearm, where the Mark hums.

"Yeah, you were real clear," Dean scoffs. "Dude."

Cain raises a brow. "Why are you here, Dean?"

"I killed Crowley," Dean says. Cain looks thoroughly unsurprised. "So there's a job opening down below."

"And?" Cain asks. He leans back against the door. This new place looks pretty similar to his last place, except for the stench of blood clinging to it. Dean decides not to ask. The wards are pushing at him but he has the Mark and so was let through.

"I need the user manual for this demon crap," Dean tells him, mirroring his pose with the porch rail. "Cheat codes, shortcuts, whatever."

Cain laughs, short and bitter. "You want to learn in a day what I learned over millennia?" He scowls. "Go away. I'm not ready to die just yet."

Dean meets his gaze. "Who was your king? Did you ever have someone to follow? To protect?"

Fire blazes in Cain's eyes as he straightens up. "Mind your tone, boy," he bites out.

Baring his teeth, Dean says, low and vicious, "Lucifer? Colette? Or maybe your baby brother, right? I know how that goes."

Cain lunges for him and Dean meets him, blood racing at _finally_ having an equal opponent.

.

Cain has thousands of years of experience with both fighting and the demon crap; Dean has three decades of fighting (including a stint in Purgatory where every fucking day was a battle to live) and the First Blade. If Cain truly wanted to kill him, Dean would barely stand a chance.

But Cain just wants to kick the crap out of him and Dean wants to figure out his physical limits now, and it's a bloody, brutal battle between them that Dean revels in. If they weren't both demons, they'd be in pieces by the end, when Cain finally tosses Dean onto the dirt, First Blade in hand and at Dean's throat.

"You are good, my son," Cain tells him, tapping the Blade against Dean's skin. "One of the best I've fought."

"Thanks," Dean says. "Right back at'cha."

They're both still for a moment, Cain crouched over Dean; Dean doesn't blink, staring up at Cain, waiting to see if he'll slide the Blade down.

"You're a killer, Dean Winchester, blood of my blood," Cain murmurs. "As all of my line are born to be." He slowly slices into Dean's skin and Dean remains completely motionless. "I've begun a purge of the Earth, to cleanse my taint from humanity. At the very end, I will come for you and your brother."

Either Cain has underestimated Dean's demon crap or he intentionally hasn't been doing that teleporting blocking, because Dean's able to zap himself from beneath Cain to behind him and he grabs the Blade on his way, tackling Cain to the ground and pressing the Blade to the back of his neck. Every piece of him, Mark included, wants to dig in and carve.

"Or perhaps," Cain continues, like their positions haven't been reversed, "you'll kill him yourself. You'll become a scourge on the Earth, my most devoted son, a curse—like the First Beasts, insatiable, inevitable."

"So you're not gonna train me, then?" Dean asks, the fury having condensed into clarity.

"You knew I wouldn't before you arrived." Cain raises his head from the ground, tilting it so that the Blade presses into his neck. "You didn't come to me for help, Dean," he says in a patient tone, like he's a teacher or something and this is a lesson Dean's struggling to learn. It's annoying enough to actually cut through the rage instead of adding to it. "You came to me for the same reason you killed Crowley."

"Cut the crap," Dean orders, slamming Cain's head back into the dirt. "I've got some experience with demons, but you and Abaddon, you've got powers I haven't seen before. Why?"

Cain sighs (well, as best he can with his face and chest pressed to the ground). "I know you're not stupid," he says. "But you're in a hurry, which leads to blind spots." He pauses; Dean shifts in place, readying himself in case Cain decides to restart their fight. Instead, Cain muses, "In all the years I've conquered and wandered, I never gave a soul the Mark. Never allowed anyone to use the Blade. I created the Knights of Hell but we were loyal to no one, Dean. And yet…"

"For fuck's sake," Dean mutters, contemplating if he should slam Cain's head against the ground again. "Stop rambling and tell me what I want to know!"

Dean _feels_ the rush of power before it barrels into him, tossing him across the yard. He immediately lunges back to his feet, tightening his grip on the Blade. Instead of rushing him, Cain just stares, expressionless.

Finally, Cain says, "I've been around a long time, Dean. Though I'm tired of existing, I'd prefer if all of my accumulated knowledge didn't vanish with me."

"And what," Dean asks, clinging to civility with all his might, "the fuck does that mean exactly?"

Cain smiles. "Did you know that the Mark, as created by God and manipulated by Lucifer, can be used to consume certain entities?"

"Uh, no?" Dean frowns in confusion.

"One lesson, then," Cain tells him. "You are a worthy successor, my son. Blood of my blood."

"Could you stop calling me that?" Dean asks in annoyance, relaxing his body because apparently they won't be fighting anymore.

"Come inside," Cain says, sedately walking across the yard. "I'm going to grill some steaks for my last meal and you're welcome to join me." He stops in front of Dean, eye to eye. "As my executioner and heir, you deserve it." He smiles again before stepping around Dean to go up the stairs to the porch.

"This has been a really weirdass day," Dean mumbles, putting the Blade back in its pocketspace and following Cain into the house.

.

Dean stops in the front room, which is completely bare except for one thing: that same picture of Colette. Cain, halfway to the doorway to the kitchen, turns just in time to see Dean pick it up again. He smiles sadly. Dean asks, "How did you live so long, knowing her killer was out there?"

Cain sighs. "Because I knew she wouldn't want me to seek vengeance. To kill in her name."

Dean almost understands that. Cain got out with Colette, and he stayed out despite Abaddon's best effort.

"I have oceans of blood on my hands, Dean," Cain says as he turns toward the kitchen. "For a brief time, I let myself forget what I am."

"A killer?" Dean suggests.

Nodding, Cain looks back. "I am cursed, Dean. I am also a curse on the world. So, too, are you now." He stalks out, his solemn words hanging in the air.

Dean carefully sets the picture down.

.

While Cain bangs around in the kitchen, Dean warily explores the rest of the house. Four rooms, single story, bare of decoration with only basic furniture.

His place with the bees had been a refuge. This is just a stopover. It's kinda sad, honestly.

Dean drifts back to the kitchen. "You're really grilling steaks?" he asks in shock.

"Wanna make yourself useful?" Cain responds without looking away from—

"The Father of Murder has an indoor grill?" he blurts. "Seriously?"

"Why not?" Cain shuts the cover.

Dean blinks and shakes his head. "How can I help?"

"Potatoes in the cupboard," Cain says. "Bake 'em in the microwave then find some vegetables in the freezer."

If it were Sam, Dean would make a comment. Nudge him with an elbow. Not as often, recently, as the Mark ate him alive. He'd forgotten that 'til now.

Dean grabs the potatoes and goes to work. Cain has some classical music playing and it's soothing. They work in (shockingly enough) companionable silence, and finally Dean plates the potatoes, scoops out the broccoli and carrots, and Cain drops the two T-bones on the plates. Cain tosses a bag of hoagie rolls onto the dining table, gets himself a glass of iced tea, takes his plate, and sits down. Dean digs a beer out of the fridge before trailing him to the table, plate in hand, to settle across from him.

The semi-comfortable silence that developed while they cooked disappears. It's not quite as ridiculously awkward as that time Dean had pizza with Death but pretty damn close. Dean decides to just go with the flow and begins cutting into his steak. He isn't hungry, really, but it smells awesome.

Finally, Cain says, "Until your death, I was unique among all creation: a demon without centuries of torture in Hell. My soul is still human's, as is yours. And that, Dean, gives us power not even the Princes of Hell possess."

"Princes of Hell?" Dean echoes.

Cain smirks. "Oh, yes, there's a hierarchy to Hell beyond merely a king."

More threats, then. "The Blade work on them?" he asks, slicing off another piece of steak.

"The Blade will kill anything short of God and Death, when held by the Mark's bearer," Cain says.

Muttering, "Good," Dean shoves the steak into his mouth.

Laughing quietly, Cain explains, "Those killed by the Blade do not have an afterlife. Humans won't go to Heaven or Hell, beasts to Purgatory, or angels and demons to the Empty—it is a true cessation of existence. Mercy, I suppose."

Dean pauses in cutting the steak and sets his fork and knife down. "And that's different from the Kurdish knife or Colt how?" When Cain just keeps smirking, Dean adds, "Or angel blades, man, seriously. Me and Sammy've permanently killed dozens of things."

"The Kurds were highly gifted in weaponry against the preternatural," Cain says. "But not even their greatest warrior priest could craft a weapon to destroy the essence of a soul forever, nor an angel's grace." He nods towards Dean's plate. "Keep eating, Dean." While Dean picks his fork up, Cain continues, "The Colt is the same. Oh, to a human, it seems to be a permanent death—those expelled from Earth by Kurdish blades or the Colt, they won't return for centuries, banished to a plane very near the Empty. But they _will_ return."

"What's the Empty?" Dean asks.

Cain sips his iced tea, eats a few bites of steak, and waits until Dean is about to repeat the question to answer, "It's where angels and demons go when they die. Those angel blades you're so fond of, they send the souls of demons and the grace of angels to the Empty. It's essentially a coma ward." He pointedly meets Dean's eye. "There are four Princes of Hell: Asmodeus, Dagon, Ramiel, and Azazel."

Dean's hand clenches around the fork.

"You've banished one of them," Cain says. "He was fanatically loyal to Lucifer, unlike the other three who have all left Hell." Excruciatingly slowly, he eats the last bit of steak on his plate and soaks up the juice with a chunk of bread. "Of course, Azazel will return," Cain continues. "It might take half a millennium, but he'll awaken from his slumber beside the Empty, crawl into Hell, and take command again." Shrugging, he adds, "Perhaps his siblings will join him. As the Princes of Hell, it is, after all, their right."

Well, that's just not going to happen. "You said they abandoned Hell," Dean says. "I killed Azazel, Sammy killed Lilith and shoved Lucifer back in his cage, and I killed Abaddon and Crowley." His eyes flash black as he bares his teeth.

Cain smirks. "Except that Azazel isn't quite dead, remember? Or Lilith. Their claim to Hell is stronger than yours or your brother's."

Dean tilts his head. "Why are you provoking me?" he asks. Because Cain is. Naming demons they thought killed as future threats?

But Cain just keeps smirking like the smug asshole he is. "As I told you earlier, Dean, you're one of the best I've fought. You are my worthy successor of the Mark, of the Knights. You and Sam have, every time, torn apart plans millennia in the making." He toasts Dean with his glass. "This is a whole new world, one ushered in by you."

The penny drops. "You chose me to replace you."

Cain nods. "Took you long enough, boy. Started to doubt my choice."

"Oh, fuck you," Dean snarls. "You've had centuries to clean up this mess and now you're dumping it on me and Sammy?"

"Should I remain, I will extinguish my bloodline," Cain points out, in that same damned patient teacher tone. "Your brother is part of my bloodline."

He's so damn calm. Resignation? Peace? It makes Dean want to bloody him. "And if I kill you now," Dean retorts, "you won't be able to finish this genocidal _mission_. You're okay with that?"

Inclining his head, Cain muses, "If I am not here, perhaps the curse will lessen."

Dean scoffs and drains the rest of his beer. "Well, teach me, teach. Sooner I learn, sooner I can give you a cessation of existence."

Cain toasts him again. Once he's set the glass down, Cain rolls up his right sleeve and traces a fingertip along the Mark. "Lucifer gave this to me," he says, almost a murmur. "Oh, Lucifer told me a wondrous tale about its origin, its purpose. _An honor_ , he called it. _A terrible burden, for the strongest._ " He glances up to meet Dean's gaze. "As God gave it to Lucifer, Lucifer gave it to me. As Lucifer gave it to me, I gave it to you."

He rolls the sleeve down. "Let's clear the table. After, I'll teach you something not even Lilith or the Princes know."

Finally. "Sounds promising," Dean snarks, standing to gather his plate and empty beer bottle.

"You are utterly irreverent," Cain tells him, sounding somewhere between annoyed and amused. "How many greater beings have wanted to smite you?"

Dean laughs. "All of them, I'm pretty sure."

.

Cain actually makes Dean clean up the fucking kitchen, watching him from where the fucker leans against the doorway, refilled iced tea glass in his hand, sipping calmly away. Dean doesn't say any of the things he wants to say, just grits his teeth and clears away what needs to be tossed, puts up what has a place in the cabinets or pantry or fridge, carefully sets the knives and cutting boards and plates in one of the sinks and fucking _cleans the damned grill_ in the other.

Cleaning his own kitchen back at the bunker is kinda relaxing. Cleaning Cain's kitchen when they both know how this night is going to end? Just a little frustrating.

But finally, Cain sets his empty glass in the sink and orders, "Follow me."

.

 _Elsewhere:_

 _Crowley does not answer the summons._

 _After the second crossroad's demon, no other demon answers, either. He had died shrieking about the missing king, which didn't make much sense._

 _Desperation disappeared hours ago, cold certainty solidified in its place._

 _If demons are useless, there's still a whole list of things to try, beginning with the ex-Scribe of God._

.

Cain sits down on the porch steps and gestures for Dean to join him. "Lucifer, and the Princes after him, gave me free rein of all the souls in Hell." He looks into the distance. The sun has set and the stars are visible; they're out in the country somewhere, Dean's not sure where exactly, but it's peaceful. Out of the way. "In the end, I chose eight souls, spread over centuries. I broke them, trained them, forged them into monstrous warriors." After a pause, Cain says, "And eventually, after eons, I killed them all except for Abaddon. She was my first, my favorite. Thank you for killing her."

"Uh, you're welcome," Dean mutters.

Laughing quietly, Cain continues, "I am very old, Dean. After years of wandering as a man, killing when the Mark demanded blood, I threw myself into a canyon. I woke to Asmodeus grinning down at me." He shakes his head. "You're not here for a history lesson. Anyway, I have abilities other demons don't. You've met most of the greatest, I believe?" He looks at Dean, who shrugs. "Lilith is top-tier, equal to the Princes. Alistair and Samhain, a few others—they fall into the hierarchy above crossroad's demons and all the rest. The Princes and Lilith have their favorites, who jockey for position and learn a few tricks."

He pauses, expectant. Dean obligingly asks, "And the Knights?"

"All of the Knights could forcefully exorcise lesser demons," Cain tells him. "Lesser demons being anyone not Lilith or a Prince, or the Old Ones. Too, Knights cannot be exorcised from their hosts." He nods towards Dean. "Of course, you and I couldn't be exorcised anyway because these are the bodies we were born in."

One thing to check off the list, then. Dean makes a note to ask about the _Old Ones_ later.

"But because of the Mark," Cain says, "I can consume other demons."

"Consume?" Dean echoes.

Cain nods, a creepy little smirk on his face. "I'm going to teach you how, Dean, and then you're going to consume me."

That just sounds fucking _wrong_ but Dean doesn't say it.

"I've only done it twice," Cain says. "One demon who wanted to leave the Knights, taking our secrets with him. And one demon who tried making a deal with Abel's grandson."

By his tone, Dean knows that no demon ever tried that again.

"So, by consume, you mean…" Dean asks.

"I mean that you will absorb all of my power, all of my knowledge, and I will cease to exist. Not Heaven, not Hell, not Purgatory, not the Empty—I will no longer _be_." Cain tilts his face towards the sky. "I've had to exist all these years because nothing could kill me. Because first, I wouldn't give anyone the opportunity to equal me, and then because I refused to curse another as I was cursed." He turns to look at Dean and his hand flashes out to grab Dean's arm, rips his sleeve to bare the Mark.

"You don't yet think it's a curse," he says as Dean pulls his arm away. "But now, enough talking." He stands and strides into the yard, calling over his shoulder, "One lesson, my son. Just one."

Dean can't wait to kill this annoying bastard.

.

So Cain can eat other demons and absorb all of their knowledge. That's… freaky.

Dean crosses his arms and gives Cain an unimpressed glare. "And what's to keep you from taking over?" he asks dryly.

Cain shrugs. "Aside from the fact that I don't want to exist anymore?" he responds just as dryly. "It's your body, Dean. I'll be a shadow in your memory, an echo."

It sounds too much like latent possession but Cain pronounces, "This is the only way I will allow you to kill me, Dean Winchester. I gave you the Mark. I allow you to keep the Blade." Dean carefully loosens his muscles, ready to move, but Cain simply stands, strides away, spins to stare Dean down. "I have taught you the lesson. Use it or I will return to cleansing the Earth."

Dean slowly rises, hearing the threat. Cain watches him come, step by step. "I can't convince you to change your mind?" he says, knowing it won't matter, and not caring either way. Cain is a present and future threat, but he'd also make an amazing ally, if Dean could ever trust his loyalty.

"No, Dean," Cain says gently.

Once he stands face to face with Cain, Dean calls to the Blade. He holds it loose by his hip and reaches with his other hand to grip Cain's shoulder. "Skin to skin, Dean," Cain tells him in that teacher tone. Dean moves his hand upward to the join of Cain's shoulder and neck, and digs his fingers in. Cain steadily looks at him as Dean _shifts_ his vision so that he can see Cain's soul. He'd barely had time to look at Crowley like this before killing the bastard, but Cain's soul is different than Lilith's or Ruby's—not as twisted, as horrifying. _Still human_ , Cain had said.

Taking a deep breath, Dean tightens his grip on both the Blade and Cain, and slowly begins to _pull_.

Cain closes his eyes.

Slowly, _slowly_ Cain's soul, silvery-gray smoke, flows out of his open mouth. Dean doesn't want it but if it's the only way to eradicate this threat—

Dean opens his mouth, inhales sharply, and pulls Cain down.

.

Finally, there is no smoke. Cain's body still breathes, still stands, but the eyes are empty. Dean stumbles backward, gasping, and doubles over before hitting his knees. He catches himself with his hands before going all the way down.

If this battle, between him and Cain's soul _inside_ Dean's soul—is this how demon possession feels? Angel possession?

 _Cain isn't even really fighting_ so Dean owes Sam all the apologies.

After what feels like days, Dean catches his breath. His whole body hurts so he carefully climbs to his feet. Somewhere between beginning to consume Cain's soul and hitting the dirt, he'd vanished the Blade so he calls it back to his hand and turns to where Cain's body is as still as a statue, blankly staring at nothing.

Dean closes his eyes, trying to look inward. The Mark whispers to him, promises of power, an inferno nothing else could survive, and it guides him to where Cain is curled up in a place in his mind. "I'm gonna have to set things up in here," Dean mutters, blinking his eyes open.

He takes three steps forward and shoves the Blade into Cain's gut.

.

After salting and burning Cain's body right where it fell, Dean goes back in the house. He grabs three beers from the fridge, drops onto the couch, and starts introspecting. Back when he was human, he'd never done much of it because he hated himself but now he just blinks black into his eyes and delves inward.

He's been controlled before, by that siren, by ghosts, by old Yellow-Eyes' kids. But he's never had to share his body before, and it's…

Well, if he weren't the last Knight of Hell, he might call it _terrifying_.

He's never consciously gone back his memories of Hell, and he was lucky enough to have not had Sammy's endless reminder. (And one day, he'll pay Lucifer back for every last memory that's ever haunted Sammy.) So he has to search now, and the only light is the Mark, shining down from somewhere. But there it is, a box in a dark corner he'd shoved those forty years into.

Dean touches the box and opens his eyes as he falls down down down—

.

 _well aren't you a pretty one_

 _scream pretty_

 _you feel that? ooh nice scream just a little louder_

 _keep screaming sammy can't hear_

 _slice 'em up boy carve in deep_

 _sammy'll never want you back now_

.

Fire flares and Dean jerks awake, the Mark burning on his arm. He purposefully thinks back to the first time he met Alistair and it's just a memory. As non-important as a grocery run, as scary as a salt&burn. No pain, no fear, no rage and hatred—Alistair was a demon who delighted in breaking Dean, in teaching him to torture, and Sam killed the fucker dead.

Except, Dean remembers, looking down at the Blade. Did he? Did Sam's powers kill demons like the Blade? Would the Final Seal have broken if Lilith wasn't totally and completely not-coming-back dead?

Well. Just like Azazel, Dean'll deal with them if they come back.

Dean drains the first bottle and starts on the second as he dives back in to find Cain's shadow. Cain'd said he wanted Dean to have all his knowledge so it's time to figure out if any of it could be a threat to Sam.

.

"Hey, Colette," Dean tells the picture as he lets the third bottle shatter on the floor. He gently places the frame on the dinner table and sets Cain's ring next to it. "You're probably in Heaven. Sorry Cain won't ever meet you there." He glances around at the house, trails his fingertips along the walls.

Cain knew how to get into and out of Hell, and how keep his body with him. A physical body in realm of spirits? Should be fun.

Dean steps onto the porch, closes the door behind him, and sedately walks down the stairs. Blade in hand, he turns and sets the house on fire with a thought.

And then, he zaps himself to Cain's personal entrance to Hell and walks in.

.

Lucifer had a throne room, before the Cage. Dean follows Cain's memories of the backroads through Hell. (But they're not roads, really; his feet don't touch anything but he walks.) Cain never saw anyone else on that throne, but Dean's willing to bet that Crowley, at least, had sat on it. Cain brought his chosen Knights to be approved by Lucifer and then (once) the Princes before he stopped going to Hell at all. (But there isn't actually a throne…? Dean actively tries to stop thinking about it.)

Maybe it's the Mark or the Blade or the demony crap, but Hell's nowhere as bad as he remembers. But then, Dean never left Alistair's care. He spent forty years in Alistair's playroom, under Alistair's full attention. As a demon—more than that, _as a Knight_ —he has nothing to fear. He's in a body armed with the Blade wearing the Mark, and he's killed three of the previous rulers.

Completely unimpressed with the state of Hell's security, Dean strides into the throne room unnoticed.

Clearly, Hell has grown complacent under Crowley's rule, despite the skirmish with Abaddon. Dean taps the Blade against his thigh, looking around. Based on what he knows of Lucifer and Crowley's personalities, he's not surprised at how gaudy the room is.

Hell whispers, a low hum in his ear, and the Mark answers, just as low. Interesting.

… There was always someone on the throne, before Cain retired. And Dean killed both of the last two rulers. Huh.

 _Hey, babe_ , Dean thinks toward the whisper.

There's a purr and heat tingles up Dean's spine. He slowly works his way towards the throne, letting Hell's spirit, consciousness, whatever, lay all of Hell's secrets bare. It's too much to absorb now, but Dean focuses on the security. On how Lucifer, Azazel, Lilith, Crowley, Abaddon—how they commanded their armies.

A demon doesn't realize he's there until he's sauntering up the dais to examine the throne. "Winchester!" it howls.

"Who's in charge?" Dean asks, lounging insouciantly on the garish, very uncomfortable chair. "I'm calling a staff meeting."

Demons spill into the room and Dean watches with a smirk. _Babe_ , he calls to Hell. _Spread the word._ He holds up the Blade; every demon that hadn't already started howling starts howling.

Dean laughs.

.

The throne room grows as needed for all the demons to fit. Dean asks, _Babe, can you pull any demons topside back down?_ It's more of an experiment than an expectation but dozens of demons suddenly poof in. Dean sits up from lounging to sprawl and waits for quiet to fall.

Eventually, the hall is silent. Dean slowly rises, making sure the Blade is obvious in his hand, that the Mark is obvious on his arm. "Crowley is dead," he announces. "And we're gonna clean up this place before the true king comes home."

The reaction isn't shocking at all, as the demons roar, and Dean readies himself. Hell is warm at his back, the Mark thirsty on his arm, and the Blade singing in his hand.

 _You're mine, babe_ , he assures Hell and the horde attacks.


End file.
